


Near is the New Distance

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Victoria au ish, historic AU, virtually no conflict except pettiness between them lmao, warning: ur teeth may have cavities bc of how sweet this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: Sansa Stark is crowned Queen in the North. Everyone around her agrees how young, naive, and inexperienced she is. With a good heart, she is willing to perform any and every duty of a ruler. And this includes finding a husband. In ambivalence, her family and advisers offered up her cousin in a silver tray like the House he belongs in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if y'all seen Victoria, then know i am basing this fic on that ICONIC show. but i'm not sure if i should write more chapters of this fic,but maybe if you guys could comment on what you think it could help me!

At times, a busy day would slowly recede into a quiet night. Meetings that consisted of ruling the North with her advisors and other royal duties have filled her days and Sansa finds it in herself to enjoy what little time she has left in the evening to play for her family.

Of course, Papa has died long ago along with her older brother Robb, the supposed heir to the throne. Their family steel and iron wrought crown now rests on her head. Bran is crippled by a horse riding accident. Arya is younger than her with wolf blood that encourages her to be as wild as their favoured animal; direwolves. And Rickon, well he still clings on Catelyn’s legs; the Queen Mother did not mind having one of her children still needing her.

“Play a lively song sister. The day has been pleasant enough. Let the night be as joyous as well.” Bran requested as one of the servants settled him near Arya, who was occupied with Nymeria and Catelyn, agreeing with her now oldest son.

Sansa faces the piano, spine elegantly straightening, and her nimble fingers flex on the piano keys. The piece she chose was one of her favourites, intricate and challenging in speed. A wordless song filled the air with feels of romance and yearning, she could taste love on her tongue as the song electrifies the air that her ladies in waiting tapped their heels in tune of it.

A smile curves her mouth as she closed her eyes, her upper body swaying as her hands continued its routine on the black and white keys, lifting more of the song without having to glance at the written notes for it; she didn’t need guidance because it’s a song she truly loves. Lady licks her foot. Once, Arya told her if she had grace instead of stubbornness in her veins, she would dance to the queen’s music. Sansa laughed so hard that Mother shot a disapproving look at both of them.

Her concentration is delicately snapped as the crisp page of the music sheet is turned to another page. She fluttered her eyes open, noticing how her audience is interested in something beside her.  There wasn’t even applause at her performance so she twisted on the cushioned seat.

The intruder came in a form of her cousin, Jon Snow. He stood tall, dressed in an indigo coat that had golden intricate designs, beige trousers, and boots. Jet black hair came unruly against his forehead and they almost covered his pewter grey eyes, a thick beard lined on his defined jaw and in this wane light, his lips had a soft impression in its innate pinkness.

She recalled the day Jon left, the demand (or a thinly veiled threat) from his aunt that has been decreed as sovereign of Westeros, and she dearly wanted her nephew to be close. She stood in line with the rest of her siblings; Robb kept on shuffling his feet, Arya’s glower at their queen’s guards wasn’t discreet, and Bran and Rickon with tears in their eyes.

While Sansa, _she_ didn’t know how to feel. Glancing at Mother would be pointless for she knows the older redhead would keep the smile off her face and be respectfully mournful. When they shook hands and Jon turned away from them, his family, Sansa’s hand moved forward as though to chase him, to follow him to the Red Keep.

 _Regret_ , Sansa labelled that irrational act. On how distant she is from Jon because Mother told, implied more like, that distance is far better because of Jon’s parentage.

“Sansa.” Jon says in a voice so soft she knew his intention; his indecipherable tone fashioned for only her to hear.

“Jon.” She too addresses him. All too aware why he’s standing over her, hands behind his back, and his face betrayed none of his thoughts.

_Not that I care that he thinks of me now._

Lady tentatively approached the direwolf at the foot of her cousin. Graceful as her master, she pads over and sniffs. A moment later, Jon’s direwolf, white as snow and possesses unsettling red eyes, curls against Lady, they both released sounds of contentment.

“Jon!” Arya’s cry of delight made Jon break their eye contact. The tiny brunette, fists her dress, and races towards him. She giggles as Jon hugs her tight, spinning them around as their embrace notably tightened. When she’s placed back on the floor, they were laughing and talking in hushed tones.

“Oh, look at our direwolves! They’re getting reacquainted just like us.” Rickon says in delight and joined her sister in warmly welcoming their cousin.  True to the youngest prince, their direwolves have formed a loose circle, sniffing, purring, and nipping at each other.

Jon cupped his hands on Arya and Rickon’s shoulder as they led him to Bran and Catelyn. Respectfully, he kissed her cheek and went to heartily hugging Bran.

Sansa lowered her hand and Lady went to nuzzle her palm. She smiled in amusement in seeing Ghost, as she now held the name, mimicked his sister. “Ghost, you have been dearly missed.” She coos to the direwolf.

None of the occupants in the room were naïve. All knew why he’s presence is suddenly made known, two moons after her coronation. Her advisors have kindly informed her of the need in their queen being married. More importantly, an advantageous tactic that could secure her hold and her rights to the throne she is now perched on.

Jon Snow, they all have said. As a prince of Westeros and her a queen, it is most logical for them to join hands in matrimony.

If it was anyone else, Sansa would agree but this is Jon. He retains the trait of never really smiling, his stance is rigid, and it seems the winter in his bones hasn’t been melted away in the heat of the South. They never got a chance to bond in their childhood because of unsaid differences. And now, it is expected for them to wed? Or, to be more specific, for her to propose to him?

Laughter almost escaped her.

Her smooth steps glided on the shining maple floor and she sat next to one of her laides in waiting, Jeyne Poole. She sits and observes how her family is exceedingly attentive to Jon and his return to Winterfell. Her fingers buried itself in the soft fur of Lady who had her head on the queen’s lap.

“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” Jeyne gushed in a deliberately lower tone.

Sansa bobs her head. “Yes, the warm sun did him good.” She replies.

The glint in his eyes was much a sight for her. With stubborn irritation, Jon still hasn’t smiled and kept his mouth in a line as he listens to each of her sibling gesticulate the happening in the years of his absence. Most of which included their adventures with their direwolves, the creatures that constantly frightened their guards much to their delight. The mischievous pranks Arya did on her brothers and them on her, the children giggling. Their pets picking up their frenzy as they ran around the ballroom with Ghost welcomed back in their company.

“We have flooded your ears with our stories, dear cousin. An account of your experience with Queen Targaryen would be duly appreciated.” Sansa’s voice cut through a story Bran was telling. Everyone gazed at her and then to him, Jon who didn’t outwardly express his discomfort except in the twitch of his hands and his jaw coiled for a moment.

“There isn’t much to talk about I’m afraid. The hot summers induces tempers and cooler drinks.” He answered, his tone was still familiar and not of that accent people from Westeros would speak with. He now shifts his body towards her, hands interlaced on one of his thighs.

“Come now cousin, there has to be much more excitements down there?” Sansa pries with a small smile. An action Catelyn narrowed her eyes at. She tried her best to ignore it, just as how she’d like to not feel her heart dance in the lull of Jon’s voice.

He leaned forward, her younger siblings stared at him with anticipation. “Dragons, three of them.” He loudly whispers and their gasps trailed not long after.

Sansa watched as the entire evening was devoted to Jon elaborating his experiences with those scaled beasts. Fondness is palpable in the room; the direwolves playing with each other, Lady played with the rest, the younger Starks listened to the stories, Catelyn and her ladies in waiting moved their fans for wane air. All the while, she observed and discovered an odd comfort of this scene.

It felt as though he never left.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The next day, after luncheon, Sansa has called a game of cards. She adored playing with her friends and even Mother if she is bored of croquet. Bran s in the library, Rickon is playing with Shaggydog meanwhile Arya is permitted to watch them play.

The heavy oak door was opened and Jon entered the parlour. With him was his companion from the South, Ser Davos, a renowned knight that has sworn protection for the prince, Sam Tarly a scholar of the Citadel. And her prime minister, Petyr.

Sansa beamed warmly at the sight of her mentor. “Lord Petyr, would you please join the game? I feel like you would be my lucky charm.” She insisted with a tone that her company has gotten used to, no matter their subtle disapproval of this- _this_ unsaid game.

He nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty. Could we please have seats for our guests?” He requested to the butlers.

Bran scoffed, shooting a look at Arya. To which the youngest girl in the room scowled and took a bite of her cookie, visibly irritated by the additional presence in the room.

“Even if Lord Prime Number will play, you’ll still lose, sweet sister.” Arya cooed, making the women and Bran laugh.

Sansa glowered at her sister. “That isn’t proper, Arya.” She grounded out in ire.

At a very young age, every one of the Starks has been taught the levels and intricacies of the political land mine. Rickon, almost reaching five, can recite the purpose of parliament; track back his ancestry back until he would resort to the Children of the Forest; a topic Maester Luwin tries not to indulge much because of its mythical origins. So she knew the title she unfortunately crowned on her prime minister is naught but a jape on his position. Though she has chastised her little sister countless of times, Arya pointedly doesn’t listen and sharpens her japes against him.

“My apologies but I do not play cards.” Jon declined in his usual tone of civil aloofness. He remained standing but then wanders towards the framed arts that are hung on the walls. He went on, scanning each display with his hands behind his back. His side profile featured the shape of his brows, his nose is slanting like of a true Stark, and Sansa knows, truly so that Jon wasn't ever a Targaryen. By the looks of him, the pale in his complexion, his inky curls, and the sullen air he has, the South or even his Targaryen blood hasn't tainted him. The years of captivity (she only dared to say this to herself) he has suffered with his aunt hasn't shown in his mannerisms and appearances. Sansa has that to thank the gods for. 

_I'm thankful the Jon my family knows is safely in tact. If only I could've known you the way I could've been allowed to, then maybe we'd have a proper reunion like of our direwolves._

Davos clapped his hands in delight. “I admit I’m not a good gambler but I like to think the more I lose, the more chances for victory!” He chuckled and accepted the given chair by the staff. He sat in between Petyr and the young queen.

The chubby brunette shakily nodded, his perpetual nervousness is shown in the manner of his darting eyes towards the reclusive prince and the table occupied by Northern people who are colder than winter. "I-I've never tried to play cards. Pe-Perhaps Davos would like to teach me how to lose too?" He stuttered and was ushered to a chair next to the Prime Minister, further distancing Sansa from him.

Sansa could’ve sworn she saw Jon’s mouth curl into a tiny smile at his guard’s action but she turned her attention to the card game. Ignoring the simmer of annoyance at Jon’s open defiance of her invitations, she shuffled her cards and sat straighter.

 _He probably doesn’t want to play because he’ll lose. He might be a sore loser._ It was utterly unexpected that she giggled, Mother, Jeyne, and Bran looked at her with curiosity. Her mind, as bored is she might be right now, conjured up the image of Jon, pouting as he lost to her. She pictures his lush pink lower lip jutting out, a scrunch on the middle of his brows, and oh what an odd and amusing image this is. To see him in a different light than the sulking appearance is so appealing, so intriguing she nearly demanded him to play with them.

_I want to get to know you._

“Jon, didn’t you play the piano? Perhaps, you and my dear sister could have a demonstration?” Arya’s voice high with enthusiasm as she willed her dark eyes to be wider; a sight no family could resist. A devilish intent shone on her face and Sansa wanted to scowl but Mother wouldn’t approve of such an action.

“I’m sure Her Majesty would want to finish her card game.” Jon murmurs and sits himself on the piano.

 _Her_ piano, a gift from one of their distant relatives she could not recall. He flicked his gaze at the music sheet then moved his arms more on the high register of _her_ piano keys. It was a rather childish reaction, seeing as how she was queen. Everything in the North is well within her rights, hers to own by the laws that have constructed the great North they reside in. But still, he could’ve asked permission as any of her subjects would do before even thinking of speaking to her.

Arya gave a pointed look at her sister. _Relive our childhood why don’t you, sister?_ Her frown said in secret.

She rose from her seat, so did the rest; and she sit next to Jon. “You may go on with the game.” Sansa says. She could feel the heat of him sizzle her skin even as she wears layers of petticoats and a long fur cloak is draped on her shoulders. She flipped through the sheets and pointed to the loops and curves of notes inked on music bars.

“This is quite difficult of a piece, cousin.” Jon noted and he rested his hands readily on the first set of keys. The sheets clearly hinted on the song being performed by two people if they cooperate rightfully, the music would be sensational.

“Yes, so keep up.” She quips.

 She flattens her heels harder on the floor. Their hands danced on the surface of the lower and high keys of the piano. Captivating tunes swirled in the air and even Arya, a hesitant singer, began to mumble the lyrics of the song as she hinted Jeyne on the cards Mother had. Sansa’s best friend held in her laughter and subtly nodded.

There wasn’t any trouble on the little space of their joint seat for their bodies moved along to their moving hands. Concentration found in the scrunch of their brows, the tightness in their mouths and how they didn’t feel the lingering and interpreting glances thrown over their audience’s shoulder. As their performance continues, the players around the circular table paused in their game to witness a potential of King and Queen in the North play together notably effortlessly. An extraordinary thing since they haven’t been in each other’s company for almost a decade.

By the end, Sansa drew in deep breaths, her fingers felt numb but a small smile is found on her mouth.

“You’ve improved though a few mistakes were made. An hour each day would increase your proficiency.” Jon commented in nonchalance. There wasn’t any smugness, teasing, or even condescending tones of suggestions in his words.

Her eyes widened. Since the crown cradles her head, no one dares, in fear of the Old Gods and of the monarch, to speak in the manner her cousin did. Silence followed his words as Sansa attempted to grasp what has happened. Her subjects shouldn’t even entertain the idea of being so, so _rude_ to her. _But he isn’t my subject._ She reminded herself, for he is of the South now. Or is it then? He _is_ here and it is evident a departure won’t happen anytime soon, much to her dismay.

 _He truly thinks I’m flawed in one of the things I love the most._ She concluded, reigning in her annoyance and retains the formal in her appearance.

“I do not have an hour each day to practice like some young pupil. I am a queen and I am rather occupied with ruling the North.” She says, icy and seething. How dare he play her piano and say such things to her? His tongue has loosened since they last met.

Jon stood from their seat; his hands on his sides. “No time for piano yet you play cards each night.” He says in return. And before Sansa can think of a retort, a tactful one unlike him her cousin bows and leave the drawing room.

She hasn’t seen him smile even before. A boy too serious and brooding back then has aged into a surly man. _But, did he smile at me now?_ She felt puzzled as to _why_ she would even want Jon to smile at her.


	2. It's a Dance of Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ball is expected for the return of Jon, an event that not all warmly welcome. But one, the ice melts by the heat of his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i decided to try another chapter and i hope it's alright! please tell me what you think!!

Naturally, to celebrate a member of the royal family in returning, a grand ball has to happen. Preparations have been going on for a week. Servants are seen bustling in grandeur decorations to the ballroom, fit for the party. Everywhere he goes, there were eyes of Sansa’s court watching him, with gazes filled of curiosity he didn’t want to answer to. And ears that would tune in to things he might say, hints of his thoughts that could lead to being out of favour with the queen or portray him as a true loyalist of the South and his aunt.

But in truth, Jon merely wanted to be _home_ again. It’s all he’s ever dreamed of since the carriage of intricate golden dragon designs carried him off from where he stands now.  He could almost picture the late Robb, not daring to look up at him for he might cry and a future king can’t cry. Arya was not so secretive of her disapproval as she almost picked a fight with one or two of his aunt’s guards. Bran and Rickon, naïve but saddened at the puzzling scene that was happening.

“Why don’t we fence?” Davos suggested in chirp.

Sam, almost immediately, cringed and raised the book higher to hide his face. With the large square shape of the yellow paged book, it obscured the round face of his friend. “I’m at a particularly interesting section of Northern history. It would be a crime to not read it through.” He mumbled.

Jon chuckled. “We know, Sam. First it was the types of weirwood, then onto tales of the Andals, and now the rebellion of the North. You’re really avoiding the breaking laws by reading books.” He reminded his blushing friend. He retrieved a thin steeled sword and wore the plush uniform of the sport.

After wearing the helmet, they hit their swords as a sign of the beginning. The opponents circled around each other with tension stiffening their limbs but not enough for they created an impression of keen alertness. Steel sweetly sang as they clashed against one another, the finest castle forged swords sliced in the air like knife through butter.

Davos, though aged with white in his hair, matched the agility and parries that Jon executes. He jumps over the broken branches and still manages to block the side jabs that Jon targets at him, the vulnerable side they both know Davos has. It almost lasted an hour until both of their swords ended up pointing at their enemy’s chests, too swift that Sam couldn’t distinguish who went first.

“I think it’s a tie.” The only man seated on a plush chair declared, eyes trained on them and his fingers flipping his book to another chapter.

Jon removed the straps on his helmet, underneath it he’s panting and sweat dots his forehead. He walked until he was standing beside Sam, and poured himself a cuppa tea.

“You’re only saying that because you love us too much to see us fight on who’s better.” The elderly man teased with a hearty laugh. He accepted the biscuit Sam was offering and munched on it.

“How do you find Winterfell, gentlemen?” Jon inquired, handing his sword to squire who returned it to its leather sheath. He met them in the South, perpetually warm, noisy, and in castles that are vast and make one feel lonely. Luckily, there were handfuls of trustworthy and amiable souls that wander in Southron halls. The master in training and his personal bodyguard are the people he felt closets to in the years of residence in the Red Keep.

Davos wearily glanced at the staffs that stood behind them, ready to do as they would bid. Sam pretended not to hear and his foot tapped against the padded now that ate up the feet of his chair.

He shook his head at their apprehension. “This is where you’re mistaken. If my family has spies to stalk us, who would they report to, Sansa? What would she do with the information that her guests play fence and drink and eat their foods?” He mocked. “Unlike the dragon’s den we were used to back at King’s Landing, the North is solemn and too loyal of people. Winter is Coming.” He explained in pride. It can be seen how the environment he is in now is a more preferred one than where he was. He was much sulkier than this, barely conversing unless Sam has to exert great efforts to get more than one word responses from him.

“Winterfell has its own charm. It isn’t as flamboyant as the Red Keep and I think the people are the ones who make this place warm. It’s the other way around back with Queen Targaryen.” Davos answered, with much less hesitation now.

“How long are we staying here, Jon? Maester Luwin is scouring the sections of his library that contain his rarest collections. Mayhap, it could take him half a moon’s turn before he can find one.” Sam pondered; the book bigger than his thick thighs sat on his lap. It has always been his never ending interests upon books, histories, names of gallant and valiant people that no one was surprised upon finding out he is a brilliant scholar of the Citadel. His requests of books didn’t surprise his Southron companion.

“Well, that depends on how long it will take for our shy prince to woo the winter queen.” Davos answered, sensing the slight irritation at the reminder of their true purpose. “When she proposes we go back to King’s Landing and return for the wedding!” He elaborated in such a simple tone as though there aren’t any complications to the equation.

For instance, Jon isn’t sure if there is even a small chance of a marriage happening between them. Why couldn’t it be that he was allowed to visit his family? Does it have to be because a marriage should be forged between two opposite nations? Jon scowled at the knight’s words. “Sansa and I are completely different. _This_ is a fool’s task.” He complained, snatching the old man’s sword and sharply swinging it around him.

“I heard the queen, more than thrice, declare that it is your destiny to be her husband. You are to wed one of the most influential monarchies around.” Sam pointed out. But his hands began to open the book to resume his reading, seeing as how Jon was glaring at him.

“Next to herself, Queen Sansa is the most powerful woman in Westeros. She’s just trying to retain her status by selling me off to the highest bidder.” _I’m certain she won’t shed a single copper coin for me if it came to that._ He bitterly replied, his hand tightening on the sword’s pommel and nearly lets it slip by how hard he swung it. He blinked in surprise as gloved hands stole the sword from his grasp.

It was Sam, chewing on his bottom lip and concerned seen in the frown of his mouth. “So does this mean you’re not excited for the ball?” He squeaks.

He fleetingly wondered what dress Sansa would wear, how her thick auburn hair might be styled into or would there be jewels intertwined into the braids? Would she be as radiant as the evening candles that dances of flames? Would she dance as graceful as a ballerina recital? “I’m not excited Sam.” Instead chose to push out of his lips, clinging on the things he’d rather not say. Knowing the men of his company, they would endlessly tease him of his thoughts.

“Ah but you’re interested.” Davos knowingly taunted. It wasn’t fashioned in a joking manner because they all knew he meant it. Even the servants would’ve agreed if they were given permission to voice their opinions.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Any of the invited guest expectation of the party would’ve surely been surpassed. Its grandeur simply took one’s breath away.  The ballroom is illuminated with numerous candles, with their ebony stands; they created an impression as though they floated in the corners of the room. Two large and glinting chandeliers hover over the guests, diamonds winking in the fire light but the looming decoration breathed an elegant air tonight. Servants passed around glasses of champagne and little snacks as the crowd are either standing or dancing on the provided space with musicians plucking sweet songs on their instruments.

The year before Jon left, a feast was held in the Great Halls of Winterfell. Music and appetizing foods blessed her that night. The musicians played her favourite songs, the lyrics she knew by heart and she can effortlessly recite the words backwards. She could even sing it in her fruity and lulling voice. The festivity went onto a point their curfew was extended because everyone was having too much fun; especially Sansa who danced all night with Robb.

Her brother huffed and groaned when his little sister commanded for another dance, numbering this would be lost to him because it seemed to be a never ending routine for him. “What about Jon?” He whined, reaching for a cup of water and drinking it to the last drop.

Sansa checked their sullen cousin. He sat over by the farthest corner of the Great Hall. He sat with Theon, both drinking ale since no one took attention to young boys and instead to the party itself. He wasn’t even talking with the lively redhead, rather, he sat there, shoulders hunched. His face is long and sad like any Stark face.

“Jon? Brother dear, dancing with him would be like having a tree stump for a partner! He’s so  _unyielding_ when a dance should be a communication between the partners.” She briefly lectured Robb, who wasn’t listening as he motioned for his cup to be refilled.

Instead, she danced with boys of lesser Houses, letting them twirl her around in dizzying circles until the nigh unfortunately ended. She stood at the centre of the ball, her unnamed partner leaving, and the servants coming in to retrieve and clean up the plates, cups, and arranging the benches once more. She turned, moving to follow Mother in exiting the hall when a sudden thought ambushed her in all its eccentricity.

 _What if I danced with Jon?_ The follow up questions were far much nosier than she would’ve liked. She pushed the prompt inquiry away, unsure of where it came from and heads to her bedchamber.

It was only years later, the question forgotten that the gods gave her the answer.

Catelyn sipped her vintage collection of Arbor Gold, swishing it around then repeating the process, letting the wine wash over her tongue in sweetness that detracts by much alcoholic it is. She fondly observes Sansa, being twirled by a man with light in his hair and his smile brighter still.

Her younger children have gone to bed, finding no thrill in parties as alcohol and chats are the only things adults do in this event. She claps along with the rest when the song ended. Her eldest, being the one with the crowned head, motioned for another song. Given, there aren’t much festivities in Winterfell, as desolated as this place is, tranquil is its constant song and she’d rather lived with that almost all her life.

“Queen Mother,” Jeyne greeted her, one of her satin gloved hands held a tiny wine cup. It’s fitting for she is only a child. _Like my Sansa, crowned with steel and iron at such a young age._

“Jeyne, sweetling, a lovely party is it not?” Catelyn hummed in nonchalance.

The brunette was pretty enough, kind eyes, dark brown curls braided on the back of her neck and a pastel gown that sweeps on the floor. “Indeed, Queen Mother but the reason as to why we’re gathered here doesn’t quite agree.” She hinted, jerking her cup to a corner where Jon was trying to hide away from his spectators.

It wasn’t hard to spot the newcomer (she says this as though Jon didn’t live with them for almost all his childhood years). He donned a velvet jacket, riddled with golden designs with matching circular shining cufflinks. His unruly jet black curls weren’t properly managed and brushed the shell of his ears and the front of his forehead. His posture was rigid, his gloved hands behind his back, and his face is vacant. Not even bored or sleepy just apathetic is his general mood.

His companion, an eccentric knight, stood at his side, sipping a glass of bubbly drink. They quietly conversed, clearly not invested in the scenery of formality and wine. Sam, Catelyn vaguely recalled, was found nowhere and most like, he is with their maesters.

“He is so unlike his companion. Ser Davos, a kind old man, lively and full of fatherly jokes and wisdom I almost want him to be my father. One might even forget he’s from the South.” Jeyne pointed out in a giggle, gingerly sipping from her wine.

Catelyn inclined her cup higher so she could drink more wine. “He rarely leaves the library though I know his friend lives there as well. Jon is exceedingly brassbound and awkward.” She joins in these criticisms because there’s a slight inflation of joy in doing this. They aren’t directly insulting him rather giving pointers that we won’t hear from across the room.

The ladies frowned in seeing Sansa so openly gesture for their prime minister.  There were vicious rumours already piling up in the dull minds of the desperate people who wish to taint her good name. Her daughter is doing a good job of letting these toxic talks fester more with her unabashed need for him, her actions are of romance but men like him aren’t the men songs praise.

Jeyne swallowed her gasp as Jon walks up to them, offering his hand to the North’s queen. “My, what a development! It seems as though the dragon has set his sights on our she-wolf of royalty.” She gushed. Perhaps it was the wine that induced her to giggle in that manner.

“Ah yes but desires her as what? Does he want her to be his wife or to have one of the wealthiest monarchs in the Seven Kingdoms?”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When Sansa was young, well younger, she used to adore parties. It is blue moon rare that Papa would allow such lights, songs, and dances to dwell in their gloomy halls. In the occasion that they do, she never wants the night to end. She used to coerce Robb to dance with her, delighting in the manner where she twirls and laughs almost prettier than any songs or poems anyone could conjure. Whenever the party dwindles to an end, she nearly wants to _demand_ that everyone would eat, laugh, and dance more.

Now, with a crown on her head, the men line up in waiting for a minute or two of a dance. Men that have titles and deeply rooted background that entices her ancient advisors and attempt to form a marriage. Sansa is almost glad with Jon’s presence that within royal protocols, there has to be a grand ball to commemorate this visit.

After one particular dance, she scans her surroundings and finds herself smiling at Lord Petyr. He dons simple grey themed suit that matches his salt and pepper hair. “What a lovely party this is.” He noted lightly, smiling as always.

She made herself to reply but someone cleared their throat at her side. Surprisingly, it was Jon. He stood with his hands, without the protection of gloves, bare and one of them was facing her.

“May I have the pleasure of a dance with Her Majesty?” Jon questioned with much noted hesitance.

Someone who is as confident in words as him, suddenly finding no firmness in a dance floor is intriguing for Sansa. The request of a dance with her prime minister changed tunes to the low tone that Jon speaks in. “Of course.” She acquiesces.

_Yes, please me you will, you stubborn boy._

Her hands rested on his broad shoulder and the other, her palm touched his. The string quartet began to play a soothing song, one that didn’t need many words to convey the sweetness of tune with high harps and lyres. She dimly marvelled at how arm he is, like lazy flames seeping into her veins.

_It’s the Targaryen in him simmering. Fire and Blood._

He steadies his grip on her, delicate yet it in a sense sturdy. They sway in the rhythm of the music, circling in gentle circles. Effortlessly, they glided on the tiled floor, in the midst of the rest of the dancers; one could pinpoint how innate their actions are of each other. 

They never lost their footing even though their eyes haven’t been separated since they first saw each other in the evening. The grey in his eyes darkened like thunder clouds, almost crackling with electricity and its fascinating to witness like nature occuring within his orbs.

Sansa _couldn’t_ look away from Jon’s intense concentrated expression. “You dance beautifully.” She whispered, as they slid to the right, along with the other pairs.

His rebellious curls swayed as he moved. “Before this, I was afraid.” He mumbled back, his eyes swiftly avoided the brief surprise that glints in her blue orbs. Knowing stories of him; uncaring, ice in his veins but his blood is still heated, she sees it all in motion. The most breathtaking motion in play than any recital in existence. 

“Afraid?”

He nervously licked his lips, an action she didn’t know could entice thoughts that could’ve made Septa Mordane weep in shame. _What is happening to me? This cousin of mine brings the worst (and the best) of me._ “I was afraid of appearing ridiculous, Sansa.” He answered her. His hold tightened, him inching her closer until they were chest to chest. “It’s difficult in finding the perfect rhythm but it’s not a challenge with you.” He confessed, his smooth voice washing over her skin like a warm bath.

Her eyelids fluttered shut and she felt him spin them around, her dress of blue mist clouding at her feet, brushing her ankles. A smile curled on her mouth at how surprising he is at this, at being gentle for they have been sparring since he arrived here. _Returned,_ she corrected herself, _he came back for me._

“Forgive me but your corsage…” He muttered, heavy with being wistful as though he was reminiscing a memory in their moment.

The flower he was pertaining to is the pale winter rose that Petyr gave her before the ball had started. She didn’t dare mention that part to him because his appreciation of it would be ruined by this information.

Sansa’s eyes opened to see his jaw coiled tight, like a spring compressing out of stress. Her breathing quickened at how _ardent_ his attention is at her. Yes, she is a queen and the attention from her court, advisors, family, and of the people are always constant to borderline excessive. But this, how attentive his darkened eyes are, how it seems he doesn’t register the evening ball and everything else but her is exhilarating.

She didn’t feel like a queen, a symbolic object of power and old royal blood flowing in her. She felt wanted, and not of her status or what she has but because of who she is. His gaze heavily implies he thinks she hung the moon for him. She would argue that the glint in his eyes have the shine that no stars could ever have.

“My mother used to sneak in my room and kiss me before she went to parties. She always wore flowers like that in her hair.” Jon admitted, soft and her baby hairs on her forehead moved along with how her heart is mimic the thuds in his chest.

Without a moment’s thought, she stopped dancing, stepped an inch away and took the flower out of her dress and handed it to him. “Then you must have it. To remind you of your mother.” She urged, her small hands not nearly covering his large ones.

“I have no place for it.” Jon protested but a notion came to mind. He bent down, snatching up a knife in his right boot. He then popped the first button on his doublet, then it revealed his cotton shirt. With his sharpened tool, he cut a small opening on his right side. He carefully placed the flower there, prettily shining but secured and hidden from plain sight. “I will hold them here, next to my heart.” He lowly uttered, soft and only for her to hear.

Outside of their bubble, the music ended, her subjects clapped in the truest signal for the dance (not _their_ dance) are finished.

Sansa and Jon curtsied and bowed as though nothing had happened, like the ice beneath their feet thinned even more. Just like those long years, Sansa lingered more on the dance floor but now, she doesn't want to dance with anyone else save for Jon. Her curiosity for him grows like a living thing and is becoming more potent each night that passes. 

 _Jon_ , she thought with a fond smile as she watched him leave.


	3. It's a Tug of War but I Don't Want to Lose You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment on what you think of this chappy.... idk if i'll do the proposal fic since its fluff

“Truly, he is a mockingbird. Sings to the young queen of praising songs.” Sansa overheard a man grumble outside of her office. She didn’t know who he was for all she knew he was a servant, passing by and loudly whining about her prime minister.

Littlefinger is his nickname in her court because of his origins. He rose high in politics as being ambitious and cunning, sometimes too much for his own good. He had grey hair, his face small and a constant slyness is expressed in his gait, words, and a little quick on the corner of his mouth. Given his long history with Mother, the choice of him helping Catelyn’s daughter lead the great Nation was appealing to her.

Her prime minister has proven himself worthy of being the second most powerful man in the country. Intelligent, resourceful, and decisive, she couldn’t have picked a better mentor in guiding her through the intricacies of being a monarch.

“A report has been made, being discussed or rather debated in parliament about the development of our crops, Your Grace.” His whispery voice declared. He sat across of her and a smile toying on his mouth like the positive news is solely because of him.

Sansa nods, sipping her afternoon tea from the dainty cup on her hands. “That is wonderful to here. Those people are the backbone of our nation. They deserve have flourishing farms.” She comments. The gleaming bell is within her reach but she hesitates. She glances at the golden square clock by the marble mantle, that their weekly meetings are almost over but a question hanging at the back of her throat.

“How do you find Jon?” She blurts out, unbidden from their previous conversation and startling at how genuine it is.

For the first time, she sees him squirm, lightly taken aback from what he heard. He leaned over to the table on his side and added sugar cubes in his tea then stirred it. ”I have seen him a few times in the castle, Your Grace. He is always with your siblings, chasing them around or riding into the Wolfswood until supper time.” He eases his findings of her guest, an unannounced one at that. Perhaps her advisors urged him to visit Winterfell. “And have you read the papers in the past few days?”

Sansa bristled at that mention. Her fingers press hard on the handle of her teacup. “Yes, yes I have Prime Minister.” She mutters in dismay.

The papers, cruel as they are, primarily serve as the people’s entertainment. Naturally, a suitor dwelling in the castle causes ripples in the newspaper business. She has seen outrageous and exaggerated pictures of Jon, so far from reality, and emphasizes on him being a stranger to them.

“They wonder why a dragon is settling its scaly wings on a wolf’s den. It’s been known for dragons to devour everything in its path, whether it be wolves or lions. They’re always starving for dominance.”  Littlefinger hums, sipping his tea.

“I’ve seen them portray my guest as _winged lizards!_ ” She huffed. Mother almost smiled when she showed it to her over breakfast. But the older redhead being a proper lady, she waves it away in the name of people’s ignorance about the royal family. Sansa saw the twitch on her mouth and the brief amusement that shined for a moment or two in her emerald eyes. The clench of her jaw could still be felt if she tries hard enough to recall. The tricky part here is to have an answer to why she was annoyed at Mother’s reaction.

The clock lets out interval of rings, making it known their meeting has officially ended. Sansa jiggles the bell and a butler opens the cream door for his exit. She stands and stretches her hand. “This has been a refreshing meeting, Prime Minister.” She says.

Littlefinger smiles as more and kisses her knuckles. He then bows to her. “As rejuvenating as spring, Your Grace.” He agrees then left the room.

Sansa sits back down on her plush chair, her hand dropping and in an instant Lady nuzzles in her palm. She looks down, fondly beaming. “Let’s take a walk.” She decided and exits the room.

“My queen.” The stiff voice belonged to her Queensguard and Brienne of Tarth is the commander of the elite soldiers who protects the sovereign with their lives. Brienne is tall, even more so in the standards of women. She has blonde locks of dirty straw, bright against the spruce of her armour. Her eyes, enchanting as sapphires and her loyalty is the truest in heart anyone in the castle has ever seen.

“Lovely afternoon, isn’t it Brienne?”

The towering blond hardly ever smiles but she tries whenever Sansa says something nice. “Yes, my queen.”

The knight followed behind her, one hand on the pommel of her sword and her gait is rigid yet alarmed.

The halls they ambled in were decorated with numerous scented candles, frames in gold that uphold her long lines of ancestors who have passed down the crown amongst each other and now to Sansa and Brienne ended up in the courtyard. A wide rectangular of cobbled space where her younger siblings would be playing stretches in front of them. But outside of the cement, are miles upon miles of thick snow that coats the twisting trees and the green that would’ve flourish if not for the constant winter.

Lady padded beside her, tail swishing up in joy, and there could be grace in her steps if only she wasn’t a direwolf. But ecstasy invigorated the wolf’s bones and leapt in front of Arya’s direwolf, Nymeria and together, they chased each other until they met with Summer and Shaggydog.

She spotted Bran, a top the grey wool blanket is the book he cradles with his hands. Though his eyes were following the lines of inked words, his lips were tilted in a contented smile. “Hello, brother.” She greets him, dropping a kiss on the crown of his head.

“Sansa, Maester Luwin has lent me one of the rarest books in our library. My, he must’ve trusted me far too much for my own good. Or perhaps he drank some dreamwine when he gave me this.” He chuckled. Such a sweet sight it is to see Bran smile, given on how much of a rarity it is since his accident.

Instead of her reply, she paused in hearing shrill laughter pierce the air. She turns away and her heart soars at the unexpected sight in front of her. Rickon and Arya, are sprinting around the fields. Around them were guards, swords strapped on their hips and the feathers on their helmets swayed to the gentle breeze.

Arya is right behind Rickon, giggling. She practically glowed from happiness it would melt the ice. “You better run, human. For I’m a direwolf and I shall feast on your flesh!” She squealed, pushing her feet harder on the layers on snow.

Rickon’s tawny curls bounced in urgency as he tries to escape his sister. “I can kill you with my sword, you beast!” He answers then suddenly turns, pausing in his steps. He raised a wooden sword, crafted in the likes of a real one but metal isn’t what it’s made of.

They were both panting and even here Sansa could see how sweaty they are. Arya merely shrugged. “I have teeth that can bite a sword in _half_.” She boasted with a smirk. She stepped forward, flexing her mouth for emphasis.

Bran glanced at Sansa as he attempted not to laugh and so did she.

There was a roar and to Sansa’s surprise, Jon came running towards them. He had his arms open like he had wings and his face wore a mask of farce intimidation. “I’m a dragon and I eat both direwolves _and_ people!” He declared, walking towards them.

The two children shrieked in alert and tried to run away but Jon is bigger and faster. His arms held them against his chest but with the force and speed of it, all three fell on the ground, breathless laughter ringing from them.

Warmth bloomed in her veins as she sees how comfortable they are of each other. Jon is _grinning_ from ear to ear as he hugs Rickon and Arya to his sides, no matter their complaints and how sweaty they are. _He’s truly family._ She thought in finality. It didn’t matter how the other queen took her away from where he clearly belongs because he came back to them. She isn’t sure how long his visit is but she hopes, for herself or for her siblings she doesn’t (or won’t) know, he will stay longer than planned. _You belong with us. Dragons don’t play in the snow with wolves. You wear furs and not scaled armour._

“If you animals would like some snacks, you better come here.” Bran’s stern voice called out. He takes a large cookie for himself and waved it for them to see. Sansa nibbles on a square of lemon cakes.

Rickon pulled Arya’s leg as she got up and he gained a head start. He frowned when he saw Jon picking up the tiny brunette in his arms and since Jon has longer legs than him, they both reached the table of sweets before he did. “You both are cheats.” He grumbled, ripping apart a bread roll and chewing the torn pieces.

“You’re a sore loser.” Arya taunted, making the teenagers laugh as she jutted her tongue out. She turned to Jon, who was smearing a thin layer of butter on his slice of bread. “We’re still going for a ride, right Jon? You promised me.” She wasn’t reminding Jon. Rather she was demanding that he exercise his promise.

A motion caught their attention and they saw Lord Petyr walking a few feet from them.

“Lord Petyr, would you join us?” Sansa called out and raised her cup in welcome. She pointedly ignored the muffled groans from Rickon, Bran, and Arya and fixed a bright beam as he approached them. She herself poured the tea into his cup and handed it to him.

“Good afternoon, princes, princess Arya, and Queen Sansa.” He chirped in greeting. The little whisker on his upper lip could be seen as he took a sip from his cup.

Bran, chewing on his oat coated biscuit, stared up at him in bleakness. Disappointment is well hidden for Sansa knows how much her little brother disapproves of him. When she asked him for his reasons, he merely arched a brow. “A sly and unworthy fox can never outrun a wolf, sweet sister. But the wolf has to know they are enemies first, then its instincts to draw blood will shortly follow.”

“Is it truly a good afternoon, Lord Prime Number? I sense a dark glooming cloud above us or in our surroundings.” Arya innocently pondered, her voice high and her eyes slid to Jon, their guest that obviously enjoyed this jape.

Sansa likes to think Bran has more sense and honour than their sister. But she was proven wrong when Bran understood the underlying joke. “Pray tell, Prime Minister why is a mockingbird of politics roaming in the halls of snow?” He too questioned in a farce sense of being naïve. He is far smarter by the praises his tutors sing about him.

“I am no maester but I’m certain there are no clouds to darken this bright day, my prince and princess. And a mockingbird flows in whatever direction the wind whips him to, so I am here.” He gracefully answered.

“Lord Petyr, have you read Oliver Twist by Mister Dickens? I do find the story most intriguing.” Sansa chimed in almost immediately, as to cut the further teasings her siblings are so intent on executing.

“I don’t bother myself with pick pockets and beggar in the night, ma’am. I wouldn’t want to read them.” He replied that came along with famed small smile everyone in court sees him wear.

“I believe Mr Dickens writes _most_ accurately about the conditions of the poor.” Jon answered, low and quiet but it snatches everyone’s attention in an unexpected turn. None would expect the prince would reply but no one was complaining. “Do you not wish to know the truth of the country that you govern?” He baits innocently, lifting his cup to sip at his tea.

Sansa, along with her siblings, are witnesses to Littlefinger attempting to hide his shock at this question. She chews on her lower lip, invested at how passionate Jon seems in the concern of their-her people.

“Your Serene Highness, I’ve been in the government sufficiently long to be….. tolerably informed.” The prime minister replies in a feeble defence and everyone who heard it knew how weak the foundation of his reason is.

“ _Arya!”_

Everyone around the table snapped their heads at the shriek of indignation. Turns out, it was the Queen Mother herself, shaking in outrage at the sight of the youngest princess. Arya’s perfect braids were now a tattered mess, still half-tied but the cinnamon locks now flow down her back. Her dress of ashen grey now has patches of dark circles were Rickon and Jon were throwing snowballs at each other and the ice melted in the cloth. The exertion from their plays are evident against her pale skin but now, her skin nearly matches ice as they all see Catelyn marching down the steps with chagrin guards following her fury.

“Mo-Mother….” She stuttered out, as meek as a mouse.

Catelyn’s face tightened considerably upon assessing her daughter then to her son, who now shares the same blanched skin as her sister. “You both look utterly _disastrous!_ Are you beggars lost in this castle or siblings to its queen? I shall have the servants scrub you both down until your skins are red and raw.” She snarled then grabbed their wrists that held bread and cookies.

“But, Jon and I are supposed to go riding…” Arya protested, trying to tug away with stubbornness.

“I’m certain Jon knows the castle as well as your memory. He was born here.” Catelyn answered back. When she saw Rickon glowering at her, she softly smiled. Anger washed away in a moment of tenderness. “Sweetlings, if you both are stricken with a horrible fever because you played in the snow, I shall never forgive myself.” She whispered against the cheek of her youngest son then pressing a gentle kiss on it.

“ _Tomorrow.”_ Arya grounds out. Her defiance is short lived and she whistled for her direwolf. Nymeria and Shaggydog raced together in colors of grey and circled around their owners.

“Why didn’t you stop their folly?” Sansa wondered, her question aimed towards Bran who has been reading the entire performance of their mother’s rage.

“I, I kept on staring at them, at them _running._ I know Mother would come bursting the scene at any moment but my little siblings were using their legs in a manner that I will never experience again. Tis are selfish reasons, I know.” His hushed confession blanketed any other noise surrounding them.

He had his head bent down, but he and Sansa knows he isn’t reading anymore. His shoulders drooped with the weight of the harbouring angst since his accident. Sansa wanted him to share, for them to divulge more of this but she can also see his hands gripping the edges of the ancient history book, as though he tries not to cry. _Please do, let me wipe your tears away sweet sad Bran. I’ll hug you so tight the Stark chill will melt away._

She’s careful to not let pity show on her face because the last time that happened; her little brother shut himself out to the family for nearly a moon. She bent down, hands on his knees, and she smiled gently. “Brother, tormenting yourself with those thoughts won’t help.” She whispered.

“I don’t think there is a bright side to this though.” Jon’s posh voice made his presence known. He towered over them but there was a clear concern on the frown of his mouth and his gait was stiff.

Sansa assumed Bran would burst out again, saying curt words and he won’t eat supper with them once more. But it was a surprise in hearing him laugh.

“Optimism isn’t my answer. It’s managing and coping with being a cripple. I think I need a nap. Good bye, my family.” He answers, sounding far much wiser than a boy of his age should be. He raises his hand and guards came forward to carry him off into his chambers.

She stood with wringing hands, her front teeth chewing on her lower lip. “I worry about him. He’s always solemn and quiet.” She whispers. She didn’t know if her knight or Jon heard her but they did.

“Comfort is the best thing we can give him, Your Grace.” Brienne assures her with a trying smile.

She felt hopeless at this case of her brother, irritated at how there aren’t any options for her to act upon. Chewing on the rest of her lemon cakes, she remains standing.  Side glancing at Jon, he turned his back to her and there was a gripping panic in seeing him leave her. “Where are you going?” She blurted out before her senses pulled those words back in her throat.

“I shall inform the stable boys I will not be riding today.” He answered her, still cradling a piece of his buttered bread roll.

Maybe it was because being inside reminded her of the queenly duties looming over her shoulders, the elderly men who deigns her for her age behind her back linger in those halls not so far from them. But maybe, there’s some unfounded tune between them and Sansa almost wants to dance to him. “I can ride with you.” She volunteered, lightly betraying the heady feeling in her veins.

The shock is expected, thankfully cracking his vacant mask. “If it doesn’t trouble you.” He carefully replied, cautiously testing these waters that’ll eventually fill their lungs and drown them.

She turned to Brienne. “Inform the squires that Jon and I will ride in the Wolfswood.” She requested. “And I would like no guards to follow us, even you my most valiant Commander.” She sweetly added.

Brienne’s sky like eyes widened in stupefaction at what she has heard. “Bu-But I’m your guard, Your Grace. I have to protect you from any harm.” She pleaded. Honour is so deeply carved in this woman and everyone can understand why she dons the highest military honour in the country.

“Jon will not hurt me, Brienne.” She affirms with a confidence she didn’t know she had about this conflicting topic. _At least by this, I want to know he isn’t harmful._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Their horses were magnificently swift, hooves pounding against the dirt path curving on the forest floor. At this part of the forest, dirt and snow spread in thickening layers. Sansa pointed to a watering bin for horses stationed in random parts of the forest and she stirred her horse there. She dropped down from her saddle, patting the horse’s neck with affection.

Lady and Ghost, their direwolves that ran alongside their horses but these beasts are frightened of these Northern beasts and so they’re almost running away from them. But the direwolves of ash and clouds in fur catch up to them in no time, occasionally barking and the horses neigh in response.

The sound of another horse boomed then stopped as Jon directed his horse over the water bin. He climbed down, his hand carding through his curls as he tried to control his breathing.

Unknown to her, Sansa was trying to regulate the stutter in her breaths. The bright rays of the afternoon have made his ebony curls shine like newly shined leather. Shadows accentuate his cheekbones, the sharpness of his jaw, but his eyes were a much more enthralling sight. The deepest of grey resembled melting steel, swirling in circles in that mesmerizing motion her mind is blank for a few seconds.

“How-how do you find the forest, Jon?” She questioned, her hand patting down the thick honey locks of her hose as he drank up the water bin.

He surveyed the forest with profound satisfaction. “I feel one with the forest.” He replies with a heavy breath, his hand patted the muscled thigh of his steed.

“Somewhere here, I know there is the largest weirwood tree I have ever seen. Papa used to say that it is the first before men came.” Sansa offered. Gazing into the vast and countless lines of thick trees, in a sea of feet of snow; this scene can go in forever. And if they continue in this route, they could walk in this scenery for as long as the land stretches.

Somehow, their trek sped up into a race. Neither of them said a word but one look and they’re off running. Their shoes didn’t make any sounds but padded over the snow and dirt, mixing them underneath their boots. They turned, circled, and twisted among trees with tops that pierce the sky.

Sansa pushed her feet firmer on the ground and the cold air skimmed past her cheeks, near in freezing her skin. She could feel Jon a head of her, can see his head of bouncing dark curls and his muscular body in motion as they continued to run. She glanced at Jon and her tracks are halted.

They were both breathing hard, breathless smiles on their faces, and their face glistened with sweat even though there was an icy wind. Her braid, intricately braided and coiled her thick auburn on her head, fell halfway with them running around. The riding hat that she wore is lost somewhere behind them, perhaps it feel when they were running. She reached to the back of her head so she can maybe save her hairstyle.

“Don’t, I like to see you unbound. You’re not so much a queen.” Jon whispered, his proximity could melt the snow on their feet. His fingers grazed on the escaped locks, tucking them behind her ear.

They were at that tantalizing distance once more. At this proximity, she can see how captivating it is when Jon smiles. Especially if his upturned is directed towards and is because of her, she couldn’t look away even if it meant keeping her crown. _He should smile more often._ The curls on his head were tempting Sansa to bury her hands into his hair and command him to stay here with her, with her family. His silver queen has no jurisdiction here and she has the power to prolong his visit for as long as time stands. The Southron queen cannot demand what _isn't_ hers. Jon isn't hers. His is the blood more of a wolf than dragon and none can oppose this.

“I think that might be treason.” Sansa replied, her chin high in the air.

Jon’s smile fell and nervously shuffled on his feet. His hand fretted with the lapel of his riding coat.

She giggles, it rings around them and she laughs more when Jon exhales in relief.

“Ah, you’re teasing me. Sam and Davos always tell me I’m too serious.” He concludes. His lush pink mouth curls into the sweetest smile she has seen on anyone. The joy radiating off him was addicting to witness, she wants to replay this moment for as long as she can.

Sansa’s breathing finally evened out. “And you always tell me I’m not enough.” She banters, feigning a pout to which he laughed _again._

“For a queen perhaps but right now, with your hair undone and you’re breathless from the run, you’re perfect.” He declares in a tone Sansa is sure she hasn’t ever heard, fonder than a mother’s words to her children and more romantic than any novel she has read.

Within this bubble they willingly trapped themselves in, optimism spurred Jon to take a step forward. His nose nearly touched his and he wore that keen expression, setting her heart tin a frenzy race of anticipation. Almost reverently, like being allowed to touch a holy thing, his fingers gather her loose locks of red and gently tuck them behind her ear. Then, his hand dances down to the nape of her neck, resting there as a reminder as though her thoughts aren’t only of him.

Familiar barks were heard nearby. Wolves of ash and snow emerged from where they were playing to trot to them. Sansa knelt on the snowy ground to heartily embrace Lady, kissing her cheek while Jon merely patted Ghost on the head.

“I know my attachment to Lady seems silly but sometimes, it feels as though she’s my only friend in the entire castle.” Sansa murmurs shyly. She cards her hand through the direwolf’s soft fur. It was only silky because as a child, she’d spent entire afternoons chasing Lady with a brush.

“Now, everything is different.” Jon mumbles, low and he’s kneeling beside Ghost too; the white direwolf with bloody red eyes. They stood near each other, their shoulders would touch if only one of them would scoot an inch more.

Sansa shied away from Jon’s inquisitive and knowing look by gazing down at Lady. “Yes, I have Lord Petyr, my family of course.” She answered without considering her options. A dangerous recklessness thrives in the closeness of her with Jon. As a queen, one should be extremely tactful with every word she says. But with him, she feels the rush as though she has been horseback riding all day, the thrill of talking and acting with him in ways she hasn’t been allowed too is far more enticing.

“I wish it hadn’t been with Lord Petyr. He isn’t so serious.” He grumbled, his words aimed at her but he directed his focus to Ghost, who is basking in the attention of his master.

She furrowed her eyebrows at that. “It appears that way but he isn’t so. He is a man of great feelings.” She defended her prime minister with sternness. He has been the one to truly guide her into the intricacies in being a monarch and she has learned lesson from him, much so that she is forever thankful of his presence.

Jon stood up and nodded stiffly. “Perhaps you should marry him.” He nonchalantly stated. He stood his ground, chest heaving, and he didn’t regret a single word he said.

“ _Jon.”_ She called out in fury. Her hands clenched the sides of her dress, her mouth tightened as she saw how unaffected he is at her hard tone. Her Northern subjects would be whimpering by now, begging for Her Majesty’s forgiveness at their insolence. But he, a mix of South and North, has a stubborn streak that boiled her blood even more. She straightened her spine, feeling like it transformed into steel as she watched him approach her.

“Sam and I went to the market the other day. I saw a girl four or five, sell matches individually.” He harshly told her. “I want to see things the way they are, as difficult and unsettling poverty is to us royals, but we _have_ to. Lord Petyr doesn’t do this, he doesn’t care for the well beings of others because it won’t suit his agendas. If you want to surround yourself with airheads and people who would whisper lies to you, then fine count me out of your blessed social circle.”

“How dare you say that? While you’ve been sunbathing in the bloody Red Keep, I have been ruling the North! You’ve only been here for a moon and you’re telling me what I should and should not do. I am the queen here. I do not need anyone to tell me what to do.” Sansa snarled. She finds some satisfaction in the tight clench of Jon’s jaw, how his grey eyes are darker like in the many instances that she has seen. Finally, she sees the many aspects of him that she has been denying herself she ever wanted.

The wolves, not their pets but the beasts inside them, are circling each other now. Both keenly are observing the other in case of another attack.

“You’re right. That is Lord Petyr’s job.” Jon said in finality, snapping all the potential retorts Sansa had in mind to hurl at him once more. He then turned his back to walk in another direction. Ghost glanced at her, his red eyes glinted as though he understood what had happened and nipped the heel of her supposed suitor.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sam loved reading. It is said as much with being a scholar of the Citadel. He spent hours that, unknown to him, morphed into days just pouring upon the history of any land he could can his hands on. There is some magic in the way people have recorded their deeds, wrote down the great deeds of others so their stories live on until the end of time.

What he didn’t like is the frenzy noise the servants were doing as they arranged and stuffed their clothes back into their luggage. In addition to this is the on-going bickering occurring in front of him. It served as a distraction from the rare Northern book the master has given him.

“We can’t just leave, Jon!” Davos protested, swiftly avoiding a girl who was carrying his many robes.

Jon opened a drawer, lifting out his cotton shirts and handing it to one of the staff they brought with them. “Yes we can. Sansa and I are ill suited. This marriage is convenient to anyone but us. We’ve been over this since the news of our departure.” He calmly answered.

“But she likes you and you like her. That counts for something, surely.” Sam intervened, giving up completely in resuming on his readings. The men pacing in front of the fireplace are disturbing his peace.

Jon scoffed. “Sansa likes a lot of people. For instance, Lord Petyr.” He bit out in a tone that perked Ghost. The direwolf might’ve assumed his master was preparing to physically fight his friends but that isn’t the case so he lowered his head and slept once more.

“He’s old enough to be her father. I should know I have three sons!” Davos exclaimed in bewilderment. “Jon, if you stay, you could be happy.” His tone reminded Sam of his dreams wherein his father, the feared Randyll Tarly, would actually care for him. Now, leagues away from that wretched man, Sam found a father in this odd knight. And he likes to think Jon does too.

“You know what my aunt would say?” Jon tossed back, like an animal cornered with no other option but to snarl at the larger animal. “She'd say it’s my destiny to honor my father’s House, the House that she herself brought back to life like her bloody dragons.” He slumped down on the chair near an oaken desk. “But even with the years I’ve lived with her, I constantly find myself missing _this_ , the place I shouldn’t call home anymore. I’m a stranger to my dragonblood even when I lived in that bloody castle of hers. I belong nowhere.” His voice cracked and he craned his neck downwards so fast Sam feared he popped a bone in his neck.

Sam and Davos were quick on their feet to comfort their prince, their reason for staying in a land of snow and icy people.

“Where you belong is a place that makes you happy.” Sam softly advised. He rubbed Jon’s right shoulder and offered a small smile.

“It doesn’t _necessarily_ have to be a place though.” Davos adds in a slyness a fox would envy. He raised his arms when the younger men arched their brows. “My sons make me happy. That counts the two of you highborn, stubborn, idiots of mine!” he said, making their sullen prince laugh.

“Sansa.” Jon intoned the way a Septon would in their prayers. “She’s my happiness.”

Times like this, Sam learns that the living world around him is far more fascinating than the  inked paragraphs of a lost time.


	4. There is Power in the Way We Love Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Power is often the discreet ruler of the court, of politics, of money and greed. But it also comes in a form of a sweeter and tender surrender.

It was rare, in fact to quote Bran “rarity of blue moon” to see the Stark siblings quiet as they occupy one of the drawing rooms. Mother seated herself nearest to the fire, it has been known the cold still affects her even with the years she has spent in Winterfell. Bran and Rickon are playing chess on the floor at her feet and Mother’s green eyes sparkle as her gaze wanders beyond the half-finished embroidery she’s doing.

Sansa and Arya are seated on one long hickory sofa; all are silent as the death. The redhead is engaged in reading a book meanwhile the brunette is combing her small hands through Nymeria and hinting Rickon on how to win a match. The other dogs, well _wolves_ some have whispered amongst themselves, are settled around them in lazy protection of their masters.

The reason why their guest isn’t with them is because of late, he stays in the library with his scholar companion and eccentric knight. Though he is obligated to join them during meal times, the rest of his day is spent among towering bookshelves and ancient books.

“When will you wed Jon?” Arya’s hushed whisper broke through the heavy and comfortable silence.

Queen Mother arched her brow and Sansa avoided her inquisitive gaze as she shifted and crossed her ankles. “Dear sister, why the assumption of a wedding at all _?”_ She sweetly ponders and tries to keep the beam off her face.

“Isn’t that why he’s here, Sans? He misses us and wants to marry you.” Rickon innocently supplied a fantasy, a hope that echoed of her glittered childhood. He glances at the chess board and discreetly pouts at Arya, who in return motioned for his knight to move and he obeyed.

Sansa is thankful the question is addressed in the evening because none would notice her blushing face. She recalls the last time she has talked with this cousin of theirs.

_You’re right. That is Lord Petyr’s job._

Oh how her blood boils at how audacious he seems! In his youth with them, Jon has always been meek and sullen, shouldering the famed Stark gloom. And now, having time spent in the South, he acts like some loose dragon? _I will not believe that._

“I’m certain Jon wouldn’t object. And-and I supposed none could reject a Queen’s offer but that won’t be in his mind when you do propose.” Bran points out in ease. He hadn’t inclined upwards to see how Arya is smirking because he’s concentrate din the game.

Arya reclined and her posture slacked only by a few degrees and she pets Nymeria’s head as her pet curls her head on the young girl’s lap. “What _is_ stopping you Your Grace?” She jests with a lilting voice.

Her hands dance on the heavy skirt of her dress; the blush on her face could’ve melted ice. In this moment, she didn’t resemble the fierce queen that rules the North with all the grace and intelligence the gods bestowed upon her since her coronation. She looks more of her tender age, a shy and blushing maid. The twinkle of the diadem twined into the crown of her head couldn’t compare to the sparkle in her bright azure eyes.

“Well there is one thing I would like for him to do before I propose to him.” She mumbled but since her family was too eager on her answer, they heard it nonetheless. There weren’t any _ifs,_ in this situation. She genuinely cannot fathom another version of her husband outside of Jon.

“What is it, dear? I’m sure he would obey you as a subject to your rule.” Queen Mother gently encourages.

She slides a look to Arya with a determined expression. “Ever since he set foot on our soil, I haven’t seen a smile that graces his handsome face.  To make matters even more dreadful. whenever he looks at me, I feel like I have wronged him. I want him to smile at me.” She confessed to her family. Perhaps this is why she has been trying to make him comfortable in his stay, to go horse riding even though she detested the sweat that covers her face afterwards. Every night after supper, she plays _his_ favourite compositions instead of Jon playing her beloved Schubert musical pieces.

Queen Mother frowns in puzzlement. Her withered hands lay the unfinished quilt on her lap, spruce and pewter pool behind Rickon. “But that is just him, my dear. He doesn’t smile as often as deemed conventional.”

Sansa laughs in agreement. “That is why I want him to smile at _me mayhap_ even because of me if I dare be so brave.” There is a fondness in her voice that even a deaf person could hear. “And besides, Lord Baelish has said it is a beneficial marriage to parties involved,”

As though a natural reaction, the young children groaned and subtly gave looks of ire amongst each other. Their hated for her prime minister is the worst kept secret because everyone within the castle knows if it. Worse, they do not even _try_ to hide their appellations.

“I advise you not to ask for _his_ view on this. There are vile rumours roaming the country and I have heard bits of it.” Bran lowly uttered. His large brown eyes made his statements sound so truthful.

“And pray tell, brother, what has mere gossip have to do with Lord Prime Number and Sansa’s proposal to Jon.” Arya called out. She has always been the most attached to Jon when they were younger. She always followed him like some shadow, always begging him to play swords with her even though Mother has vehemently forbade it. So now, a protective expression came about on her face.

Bran shifted out and ran his hand through his shaggy locks; a style he has a liking of meanwhile Mother hated it for it gave her son an “unruly” affect and for a prince no less. “The birds chirp out secret messages and I listen to them. They say Jon is here to wed the queen only so _his_ Southron queen can rule the entirety of Westeros as she has intended. Yet with the wars behind us, rebuilding two strong nations costs so much both of blood and coin, she didn’t dare conquer the North. Her nephew is a sweet solution to her answers. She can get both money _and_ power through this marriage.” He explains with a grave tone.

“But Jon will never allow that plan to be in motion. He loves Winterfell.” Rickon argues with a petulant frown. “And I think I am winning this match.”

“And you think Lord Prime Number is the wind for these false stories to spread around the country?” Arya says with a grim tone and a gloomier frown.

“Not to the people outside of these walls rather to the small council.” Bran almost seethes but his tone is equivalent to a sneer anyways.

“If the small council is convinced of such wicked intent, they would never consent to giving Jon the deserved title of a husband of a queen.” Arya stammered out in shock and fury.

It is a brilliant plan, she would give him that. He feeds the northern men’s fear of a foreigner ruling their land, fans the flames so the very thought of Jon being their _king_ would make them burn with outrage. It is a subtle and clever plan, much like man who crafted it.

Sansa stands up, clutching her book with an iron grip. Her family regards her with a look that resembles pity. _Funny, I have a crown and a kingdom yet they feel sorry for me._ “Jon is not a pawn to anyone. He is a renowned knight throughout the realm, the best man with a sword I have heard. And he is a loyal man to the bone.” She grits out and exits the room. Lady follows behind the young queen, her tail up in the air much like how Sansa’s chin is set.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

A few days have passed without an incident. Or, to be more specific, mundane days have slipped without anyone mentioning marriage within the hearing range of the redheaded queen. The structure of the castle is a perfect excuse for Sansa and Jon to give when one would ask why they haven’t been seen going on walks together or Jon elaborating on his favourite painter.

In that evening, after she has yet again won a game of cards (with Jon nowhere in sight for his reason is exhaustion has taken a toll from riding each and every afternoon since their fight), she retired in her bedchambers. She sits in front of the vanity and when the door signals her maid entering, she flashes a smile. “Have you acquired it?”

Gilly, a shy thing with dark brown eyes and a tight braid of her cinnamon locks down her back, curtsied and nodded in confirmation. On her hands is a bundle of winter roses, in the dark of the room, they seem to glow in radiant blue. “It was a tad difficult to find in this season, ma’am but we managed.” She whispered and laid them down next to her powders, bottled up scented oils, and combs. “If I may, Your Majesty?” She requests, her small hands hovering over Sansa’s intricately braided locks.

Sansa nods. The pressure in her head decreases significantly when her hair flowed freely down her shoulders and back. “Has the prince received my message?” She questions, her hands toying with a hair comb.

The maid was concentrated on her work but answered. “Yes, Your Grace, I made sure the prince taken your message.” She meekly replies.

 _Good,_ she thinks with a smile.

After what felt like a year, the style is handsomely accomplished. The rare and lovely flowers were woven into the braid that sits at the nape of her neck. “You have my thanks, Gilly.”

“’Twas no problem, ma’am.” She easily deflected.

“I know finding winter roses was difficult but it is important to my cause, I assure you. I know that Lord Baelish has a garden dedicated to it in his estate. Once, Mother told me he used to gift the very same roses every day to her but he married Father.” She lowered her eyes but her lips curled into a soft beam. “But I couldn’t ask him of this. I have to be independent from him in order to gain Jon’s trust again.”

_If he accepts me that is…._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sansa orders the best drawing room to be empty of anyone who isn’t her. She, _herself,_ lit each candle in the room and barely completing the task for her hands shook. If she wasn’t so nervous, she might’ve laughed at how ridiculous her reaction is. At such a young age, she has been graced to rule over millions of people, attend meetings with men twice her age, and still be expected to hold her chin high so the steeled crown won’t fall from her head.

And this, the chance of some semblance of happiness is what makes her knees shake? She shakes her head and stood by the fire place. The flames broke through the wooden locks, reducing them to ashes and provided her warmth in this chilled room. _Is that love then? You would break yourself into pieces so the other won’t be cold?_

The heavy door groans open, signalling Jon. Her throat tightens in agitation. In this moment, she isn’t the renowned Red Wolf that rules over the North like her most precious babe. No, she has her tail between her legs and her hold on her dress made her knuckles turn white as snow.

Even if she sees him in the times they eat, this is different because it’s only them; the way her foolish heart yearns and infects her dreams of it. He stood as dashing as the faceless prince she used to love when Mother retells her daughters of knights in gleaming armour and always rescuing maidens from peril dangers. Though Jon doesn’t have sufficient skills to charm a puppy, he manages to make this queen swoon at the sight of him anyways.

“Your Grace.” He addressed her, colder than the winds of the Long Night. His eyes of grey mist told her nothing of his emotions.

They both stood their ground, stubborn like winter but wolves stay together as a pack during hard times. _Winter is here and so are you, Jon._ It hurt her that he barricades himself with unnecessary formality. Everyone addresses her with titles, with familial attachments but with him, he merely says her name. It gives a unique sense of intimacy and she adores it, needs to be reminded of her name. She isn’t only a queen, a sister, and daughter. She’s Sansa who loves poetry and paintings and perhaps the man in this room with her.

“Jon, when is your departure?” _Away from me,_ the wolf in her snarled, teeth baring and the claws pawed somewhere in her chest making it hard to breathe.

He blinks and tugs at the cufflinks resting on his wrists. It’s his tendency to toy with it when his nerves are frizzled with anxiety it seems. “When Her Majesty gives my companions and I the blessing, I shall arrange the passages.” His voice is clipped and his posture so stiff it rivalled of that her most valiant knight.

She took a step forward and he mimicked her action without even realizing it. Seeing the sudden bloom of heat high on his cheeks encourages her on this endeavour, this risk for something she hadn’t thought possible. “I have but one question. And I have to know you do not mind me asking.”

A shadow of a grin hovers on his mouth. He dips his chin in agreement. A flash of awareness passes over his face as he roves over her nervous form. “The flowers, they are in your hair…” He states in wonder like something akin to magical has just occurred. As though he forgot their quarrel, their mutual and colliding pride and mulish attitudes, and ate up the distance with four steps. His knuckles graze over hers.

The closeness is intoxicating for her. His face is so close and temptation has never been greater. And maybe her Septa is correct in preaching of how flawed people are. She wants to experience things, unnamed passionate acts with him. “Should I ask my question now?” She whispers and if she moves an inch, their nose would touch.

“I wish you would, Sans.” Jon replies. A _smile_ stretches on his full pink lips when she giggles.

“Jon, would you do me the honour-wait, that doesn’t sound right!”Sansa huffs in frustration. She closes her eyes and if her family saw her they’d tease her inability to voice out the sweetest question in existence. After exhaling a quivering breath, she reopens her eyes and fondness is so overtly softening his features. “ _Jon,_ will you marry me?”

The gods answer prayers in their own time, no matter how people want an instant answer. Now, she is thankful to them because no one can deny how the smile he has is because _and_ for her. She silently vows to try to make him smile as often as she can from now on.

He composes himself but his eyes sparkle. “I have to say it depends.” He answers.

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion and she frowns as though she has been denied her favourite toy. “Depends on _what_?” She said in askance which shouldn’t even be this way. As Her Majesty, she shouldn’t even ask for anything for it will be delivered to her with a flick of her wrist and some words.

“I should kiss you first.” Jon plainly proposes and takes an inch closer to their chests touch, their hands curl on one another on instinct. Wolves do the same thing in brushing up against their mate to provide comfort and love.

“ _Kiss_ me?” Sansa echoes in puzzlement and amazement. She didn’t protest as Jon’s other hand rested so tenderly on her cheek she would’ve wept.

Jon replied in a manner words weren’t necessary. His lips were smooth against hers but his beard tickles. She would’ve thought kissing a bearded man would resemble kissing a bush but she doesn’t mind because it’s her Jon, her hero from dreams come to life.

This is a dance no one taught her save for Jon. He is a patient teacher, leading her inept mouth in a gently patterns of tug and pull, to draw her into this new action no one told her about. For a moment she is irritated on how naïve she is, how she knew foreign politics but knew none of this. The only music for this dance is the steady heartbeats she feels as she flattens her hand against his chest.

When he pulls away, she leans an inch forward like she intended to catch his lips once more. She could demand him to kiss her but that won’t be needed. Jon will always be exceedingly magnanimous towards her that she is spoiled in yet another way. _We can have more kiss later on,_ she muses. “What is your decision Jon?” She asks of him, her eyes never straying from his lest he misses even one flutter of his long dark lashes against the apple of his cheeks.

“There is no decision here.” Her heart stops and cold seeps quickly in her veins. She takes a step back but Jon is quick to wound an arm around her waist and bringer her closer, the improper actions stacking on one another by the minute.

“It is fate, you and I. No matter the hardship of our lives, my life will always be merged with yours and we will live and love together, my love, my sweet girl.” His words of endearment washes through her like the most relaxing warm bath. The rare smile make itself known once more and she _felt_ his heart beat faster. “I shall be wed to you, Sans.” He lowly says in fascination as though he thinks this is all a dream.

“You shall be mine as I am yours.” Sansa reminds him before pressing her lips against his.

Jon holds her tighter and he buries his face on the curve of her neck. He then spins her in wide and dizzying circles, making his wife to be squeals and circle her arms around him, laughing at the spot behind his ear. He settles her down and kisses her forehead then her nose in devastating gentleness.

 _I love you,_ Sansa wants to say but she is buzzing with such joy she can barely speak. She can only run her hands through his inky curls and press their foreheads together. _I have a lifetime to confess my love to him._ She thinks in giddiness and pulls him forward for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i genuinely thought i would never update this fic but here i am, a liar!! some quotes are directly lifted from Victoria (u all better watch it ISTG) i'm thinking of expanding this but eh we'll see how much my lazy ass can handle. and HONESTLY i want to know what yall think of this fic bc this has a soft spot in my very much soft heart


	5. Loyalty is love

“What is her favourite music of the moment?”

 

“Schubert.”

 

Varys trails his finger on the spine of the books. Bookshelves stuck to the walls of the library, cosy fireplace with firewood crackling and Jon is seated near the piano, fingers resting on the keys. “What else is there? Surely a princess-“

 

_Sansa is a queen. It’s possible to have another one other than Aunt Daenerys._

 

“-Has other hobbies? Please do elaborate.” Varys requests with a waved hand in the air.

 

“She likes to sew with her ladies in waiting, drawing, and having strolls in the gardens.”

 

“You’ve mention music. What type of opera does she prefer?”

 

“Norma that is what I like. Thank you for asking, sir.”

 

A hand slams on the oak desk. No one is surprised and the men are accustomed to this reaction. Aunt Daenerys narrows her eyes, the famed amethyst felt like scratching his skin with the sharpness from her. “She doesn’t like Norma; at least from what we’ve been informed.” She gestured to Varys. “My nephew, you _must_ take these notes seriously. If you are to impress her, you must be, well, impressionable.”

 

Biting back a sigh, he stretches his legs and just wants to play the piano. He doesn’t want to memorize his cousin’s habits, doesn’t want to do meddle with the complex and constantly shifting plane of politics.

 

“She’s right you know.” Varys agrees, taking a sip of wine.

 

The blonde dips her fountain pen into the inkwell and signs the stack of papers in front of her. “I’m the queen of six kingdoms and our connection with the North is profoundly fortunate for us.” She stares at Jon with an arched brow. “You’re the game changer here, Jon. We could have an empire with our family.”

 

Since he was a boy he wondered how affection could soften the fire in her voice. But their House colors of red and black are etched into her evening gown. He can’t ever forget the severity of determination that runs through their veins.

 

“Are you even certain she will like me?” He resigns, trying not to sound too disgraceful. A picture of an aloof redhead waltzes into his mind. He recalls the times wherein Sansa would watch by the rampart with her parents as he and Robb sparred with dull swords and steel singing. Is she still the same?

 

His aunt waves her hand with a scoff. “That shouldn’t be your concern.”

 

 _All I wanted was to visit Sam during his studies. Not be dragged into the chessboard for her._ “Shouldn’t it be? She’s the one who will propose.”

“Being insolent is not an attractive trait. What she adores fancies is an attentive man like that of Lord Baelish.” Aunt Daenerys responds, gracefully but her face does not soften in ease.

 

“So I am to compete with a politician, then? How very so.” Jon quips.

 

Varys manages a chuckle before the queen glowers at him then at her nephew for stepping out of the line once more. “This is a game, sir, and it will be set in motion even if you’re not involved. Might as well participate to win the throne.”

 

 _This is chess._ Jon fidgets with his cravat, avoiding the insistent gaze of the queen. _And I’m nothing but a pawn to them._

 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Jon repays the ride that he owes Arya.

In the tranquil afternoon, they raced through the dirt path weaving through the gardens. The steeds’ hooves pounded into the ground, creating clouds of dirt, but their joint delighted laughter is much louder.

 

“And I win!” Arya shouts at the top of her lungs. She pats the neck of her horse as it bends down to drink water. Her mousy braids are maintained on the nape of her neck, the riding hat perched on her head. “Cousin, your swordplay isn’t as proficient as horse riding.”

 

Jon chuckles, hopping of his horse and pats it’s side. “I cannot be too gifted. The gods made me humble.” The moment the little princess steps down, he engulfs her in a hug.

 

He missed the Starks far too much to put it into words. In his years staying in the Capital, most of his thoughts are with his family. They are the people who have his utmost almost irrational loyalty, if needs be.  

 

Arya giggles, looking at him with breathless smile and a sweaty face. “I’m so glad Sansa is marrying you.” She says, stepping away and fixing her skirts. “Just the thought of Lord _Baelish_ being my brother-in-law is notably notorious!”

His entire body freezes at the declamation. “Lord Baelish attempted to ask Sansa’s hand in marriage?” He asked, incredulous obvious in his tone and shock in the rise of his brows.

 

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Arya exclaimed. She lays her hand on the crook of his elbow. “Well, before Lord Prime Number became a politician, he asked for Sansa’s hand. She was just a princess but Mother strongly advised against it. A year or two later, he went in parliament. Now he’s wealthier than when he was just a lord of some barren land.”

 

 _Now, he’s closer with Sansa than a rejected suitor._ Jon fumed.

 

“When did he ask for her hand?”

 

Arya taps her chin. “Two moons after Robb died. His reason was that he could make her happy after such a tragedy; the gall of the man I swear on the-dear sister, good afternoon.” She answered. They both curtsied at their visitors.

 

Though Jon saw Sansa last night, when she _proposed,_ his heart still danced to the curve of her smile; equally delighted in seeing him. He moves forward, to the pair of Sansa and her Queensguard.

“Have you slept well?” Sansa asked him, the smile making her face glow in adoration.

 

“Very well, Your Grace.” Jon replies, not daring to take his attention away from his wife to be.

 

“Brienne, I found some peculiar shrubberies. I wonder if you could point them out to me.” The other northern princess inquiries, fluttering her lashes as though she was innocent.

 

The tall blonde glanced at her queen, when she was given permission, she quirked a smile. “Of course, princess. Shrubberies are my speciality.” She concedes, giving the newly engaged couple some distance as they approach the gardens.

 

Without saying anything, Jon and Sansa walked to the abandoned gazebo. As soon as they were out of anyone’s view, Jon backed her up to a wall and ardently kissed her. Her small hands cradle his cheeks and she eagerly returned his kisses with affection. His hands roam her clothed hips, ribcage, and stops at her neck. Tilting her neck back, he devours her like of a wolf to its prey. Thrill electrifies his nerves in feeling Sansa’s moans and almost in unison with his groans when her fingernails scratched along his scalp.

 

She breaks the kiss and he brings her closer to his chest, foreheads together. “We must marry, immediately my love.”  She softly demands with a pout.

 

“But I must return to King’s Landing.” Jon mutters against the side of her head. His lips descend down on her freckled cheek to the bridge of her nose, and then arrive at her pink plump mouth. “I loathe leaving you but I must return.”  

 

“Do you think your aunt would like me Jon?” Sansa asks, her hands settling on his shoulders.

 

_She sees you as something to be conquered, submitted to her regime. My aunt and I do not share the same opinion on you._

 

“She will be direct in things of marriage I haven’t considered myself.” Jon truthfully answers; his fingers brush on the nape of her neck. Both of them laughed when she squirmed. “All I think of matrimony is spending the rest of my days with you.”

 

“She might not act so mannerly with me. After all, I’m stealing away her only nephew.”

 

Jon clicks his tongue, adoring how the morning light makes her skin smoother than ever. As though she is some deity of beauty, in disguise as human to make Jon feel so helpless to her charms. “She never had me. I’m yours until we draw our last breath.”

 

Sadness crept to her jovial face. She brushes her nose against his. “I wish I were an ordinary woman. We would be married by now, cuddle under the blankets, and love to keep us warm in this chill.”

 

“But you are no common woman; you are the Queen in the North.”

 

“And I am yours.”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sam and Ser Davos are waiting for him in the carriage. The entire household is behind their queen tearfully bid him a good bye.

 

Arya stands beside Sansa. She jutted her chin in the air; a tactic she does as to not be too emotional around people. “Have a safe journey, cousin.” She says in a flat tone but her eyes are wide and bright.

Jon nods, stretching his arms out and hugs her. He bends down to kiss Arya and Bran’s foreheads then ruffling Rickon’s wild auburn curls. “I will be back before you know it.” He vows.

 

“Good because I need another partner for swordsplay. Arya is too quick for me!” Rickon complained with a pout.

 

“I’m just too good for you, brother.”

 

“Children.” The Queen Mother scolds and the children arrange themselves accordingly. She stares at Jon but now her conventional icy gaze melts into a lake underneath the summer’s sun. “You make my daughter happy, ser. And for that, we are all so grateful.”

 

He could not prevent the grin to curve his mouth. “Queen Mother, I shall be your son now, when we wed.” He teased, making the children giggle

.

“Ah yes, and you make one marvellous son, my dear.” Catelyn softly agrees, much to everyone’s surprise.

 

Jon kisses her cheek and moves on to his beloved, the Queen in the North and the one who rules his heart and soul. He cradles her gloved hands, kissing the knuckles a thousand times before he steps down.

 

“I will miss you for every moment you are not by my side.” Sansa professed, pressing her lips on his nose. The morning breeze sweeps past them making her copper hair flutter against the cape she dons.

 

He would’ve done anything to push her hair out of her neck and lay kisses there. The marks he wrote on her skin that would remind her that he is with her no matter the distance between them.

 

“I will not miss you.”

 

Her face fell in shock and despair.

 

“My dreams will only be of you.” he whispers to her, smiling. They both quietly laugh. “Sansa, my aunt would want us to talk about my allowance and titles when I return.” He confided to her. Though it is known, no one has talked about it, and he wants Sansa to know the plans of it aunt. If only a bit of it would suffice, Sansa is an intelligent girl, she will be able to piece the puzzle together.

 

The redhead sighs. “Why talk of this now? I won’t be seeing you for moons!”

 

Jon stands closer to her, leaning forward so his mouth brushes on the shell of his ear. “When in some moments you miss me, just imagine I kiss you right here.” He presses his mouth on the spot behind her ear. She silently keens like an alley cat.

 

“Have a safe journey and return to me at once, love.” Sansa haggled with a frown and starkness befitting her titles.

 

After waving goodbye to the Starks, he climbs inside the carriage with his companions patiently waiting.

 

“Your aunt will be delight at this news, Your Serene Highness.” Ser Davos says in a light tone and offered an amiable smile. “King Consort has a nice ring to it.”

 

Sam looks up from the book perched on his lap. “He won’t be King Consort. He’d be the Queen’s husband. And their parliament will decide his titles.” He explained but he looks at Jon with comfort. “But I know you two will be happy together.”

 

Jon kept on staring at Sansa’s quickly retreating figure. He wanted to leap out and hug her for the rest of the day. Perhaps not even continue with this journey at all. Suspend it as much as they can because hearing gloats from an already feared predator, a dragon, is enough for one to avoid such predictability.

 

“She would be so diligently informed of my allowance ad titles. All I want is to serve the North the best I can. If they let me, of course, gods know how fastidious they are.” He signs, closing his eyes. “They would never let a foreigner reign over them. What of their queen marrying to one?”

 

_I wish I never left._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im genuinely perplexed as to why people STILL think jon is uncaring to Sansa,,,,,

**Author's Note:**

> i added a few scenes and please tell me how you feel about it omg


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